


What We Have Done

by MakinaNeko



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Ficlet, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Inner Dialogue, POV Second Person, POV Spock (Star Trek), implied adultery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29697159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MakinaNeko/pseuds/MakinaNeko
Summary: "She belongs to another.You hold on to this mantra, as if it could stay your hand now, as if the events had not been put in motion weeks or even months ago. All you can do now is experience the irresistible pull of gravity, as your trajectories converge toward this moment, set on a collision course that you have no desire to divert."---There are many reasons why Spock tells himself he should not do this. But, regarding Nyota Uhura, all rational arguments have proven insufficient.Ficlet, from 2nd person point of view (Spock).
Relationships: Spock/Nyota Uhura
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	What We Have Done

_She belongs to another._

You know this, with a devastating certainty. Yet, she does not reiterate that fact, and as you begin to trace the palm of her hand with your fingers, she closes her eyes and exhales a shuddering breath. So easy to overlook, in the soft shadows of your apartment, that she belongs to another.

You could stop. You should stop, really, but your hands are moving of their own volition, and the soft expanses of her skin, on her neck and shoulders, are intoxicating. You are unsure of how far she will let you go or if you will ever get the chance to touch her like this again. That makes you reckless. When you lean over her to kiss her jaw and neck, you could almost disregard it. _She belongs to another._

Your name on her lips is a chant, one you would gladly hear more often, and it is all the incentive you need to increase the rhythm of your hands and the eagerness of your mouth on her skin so that you can hear her soft sighs and the urgency in her voice as she says your name one more time. That, in the past, she may have said the name of another with such passion is a thought you fight until it recedes in the farthest corner of your consciousness.  _ She belongs to another. _

She has every right to refuse you, naturally, a fact you feel necessary to point out to her, despite how difficult it is to articulate these words. She belongs to another, but her rejecting you is the only thing that could stop you now, something you dread and hope for at the same time.

"I want you," she says, her mouth close enough that you can smell the sweet scent of her breath, and you know you are lost. She is almost weightless in your arms, a fact that stands at odds with how long it takes you to carry her from the couch to your bedroom. When she drops her shirt on the floor, you stand there for a long time, awestruck, your hands hanging uselessly to your sides. In the dimmed light of the room, the curve of her hips and the gentle swell of her breasts is a study in  _ chiaroscuro _ out of a Caravaggio's painting -- something to admire or revere, surely, but not to touch. Certainly not yours to touch.

It would be easier to believe that her presence in this room is an accident, but the Vulcan eidetic memory is both a gift and a curse that forbids you to evade the truth of your actions. The deliberate steps you took to bring her to this place and time result only from your failure at mastering your emotions -- a task that, regarding Nyota Uhura, you have found more daunting than achieving  _ kolinahr _ .  _ She belongs to another. _ You hold on to this last mantra, as if it could stay your hand now, as if the events had not been put in motion weeks or even months ago. All you can do now is experience the irresistible pull of gravity as your trajectories converge toward this moment, set on a collision course that you have no desire to divert.

As you stand motionless, she takes a step forward and brings your hand to her waist. The sensation of her skin against your fingers is an electrical shock that jolts you out of your reverie. Her mouth against yours, soft and warm, her hand cupping your neck, anchors you to the reality of this instant, and when she pulls back, you have to chase after her mouth. It makes her smile, and you touch her lips with the tip of your finger, curious.

"Off." Her command is one you gladly obey, as she tugs at your clothes. The sensation of her naked skin against yours defies all rational explanation. In all the equations you know for describing the known universe's laws, there is none to account adequately for this phenomenon. "Nyota." You're startled to hear her name drawn from your lips and by the sound of your own voice, rough and uneven, as you push into her. Her hips rise to meet yours, her hands gripping your shoulders, until the lack of space between your bodies contracts into a nothingness of heat and motion.

_ She belongs to another _ . This thought impresses a searing pain in your chest, even though your body is experiencing the greatest pleasure you have ever known. The feeling of her around you, the music of her sighs whispered into your collarbone, and the gentle press of her mind against yours; every motion drives you further along with her on a path that reaches up to the sky, higher and higher until you tumble, her skin hot and damp under your hands.

_ She belongs to another. _ The painful irony of these words is inescapable as you both lay breathless on the crumpled sheets of your bed. You cannot dwell on it, not now, lest the disgust you feel for yourself and what you have just done threaten to overcome you; the bliss you are still experiencing at feeling her so close to you notwithstanding.

"Don't," she says. She is incredibly perceptive, and it should not surprise you that she seems to comprehend the turmoil inside you. What is unexpected, however, is the way she kisses you, fierce and thorough, her mouth unrelenting on yours until you surrender, irrevocably, to her claim. 

She is a linguist. She knows the power of words. She needs only three to shake you to the core, and her mind pressed and unguarded against yours carries all the weight of those words into your consciousness. "I love you."

In the infinitesimal lapse of time these words hang in the air between you and her, your world crumbles and collapses; a deflagration of pure joy, so intense as to be painful, washes all over you, obliterating everything you thought you knew, and redefines the contours of your life in its wake. When it ebbs, the elation just short of being unbearable, you realize that you are holding her tight in your arms, tighter than is probably comfortable for her, but she only smiles at you, a genuine smile that makes you want to taste her lips one more time.

She is a linguist. Words are important to her. You used to have plenty of them; precise vocabulary and exactingly accurate scientific terms. But there is only one you are able to offer her at this moment. "Nyota." What you can't articulate aloud -- all your longing for her, the misery of the past few months without her, and your all-encompassing conviction that you will never be able to let her go -- you try to share through the tips of your fingers.

She repeats those words, and this time you say them back. It is a dizzying feeling, walking on the edge of this wondrous realization, and it crystallizes into an absolute certainty, the most self-evident truth that you have been given to contemplate.

_ I belong with you. _

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Hope you enjoyed this!
> 
> I have a bit of a disclaimer about this story. I'm not totally OK with the wording "She belongs to another" that I (or Spock) repeatedly use here. I'm not on board with the idea that "belonging" to someone is somehow a romantic ideal or that relationships work this way. Yet, it came to me like this, and I couldn't find another wording without abandoning the idea entirely. I reasoned (rationalized?) that it _could_ be ok because that's only how Spock sees it through the lens of his own despair and pain, not the reality of Nyota's previous relationship, or how Spock conceives his own relationship with Nyota. I tried to make clear that Spock respects Nyota's consent and agency, and I hope that the semantic shift of the last sentence "I belong with you" conveys this message clearly enough.
> 
> So, all this to say: I hope y'all weren't bothered by it (I was, slightly), and if you were -- of if you weren't and are now thinking I got overboard with this disclaimer -- please let me know in the comments!
> 
> On a different note: this fic was loosely inspired by the (gut-wrenchingly sad) song [ "Accidental Babies" by Damien Rice](https://youtu.be/YgX_Vq0RxPA). I can't recommend his songs highly enough.
> 
> "Well I held you like a lover  
> Happy hands, your elbow in the appropriate place
> 
> And we ignored our others  
> Happy plans for that delicate look upon your face 
> 
> Our bodies moved and hardened  
> Hurting parts of your garden  
> With no room for a pardon  
> In a place where no one knows what we have done
> 
> [...]
> 
> Well you held me like a lover  
> Sweaty hands  
> And my foot in the appropriate place
> 
> We use cushions to cover happy glands  
> In the mild issue of our disgrace
> 
> Our minds pressed and guarded  
> While our flesh disregarded  
> The lack of space for the lighthearted  
> In the boom that beats our drum"  
> 


End file.
